My poem by Scene Red from the album Shining Through The Trees, available for download on Bandcamp.
Tag Archives: Poetry
TWADDLE TALK
This piece of performance poetry was recorded by The Chilly Dogz in 2010 at Red Kite Studios in Llanwrda. Words by Harri Rogers, Guitar by Marc Gordon. Still valid today as a critique of management speak.
TWADDLE TALK
Your office door is always open, I hear you on the phone
Run it up the flag pole, Give the dog a bone
It’s a nice little earner, Kick it in the long grass
Stick it on the back burner , We’re gonna whup their ass
I hear what you say
I don’t like what you do
I wish you’d go away
Cos I can’t stand you
You say you’re building your team
But things aint quite what they seem
Sharing Mars Bars in the Mendips, Where the glasses are half full
It’s all singing and dancing, In the best of both worlds
So throw me a bone, Give me a break
The buck stops here, Let’s cut to the chase
Gotta ramp it up, cos you’re off your face.
I hear what you say
I don’t like what you do,
I wish you’d go away,
‘Cos I can’t stand you
You’re a legend in your own lunchtime,
But I know where your bodies are buried,
So gather up your parrots and monkeys,
Take those skeletons out of your closet, and clear your fucking desk
Stop talking twaddle and GIVE US ALL A REST
Harry Rogers, in the old study, Aberbanc, 23rd February, 2010
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MY CABIN ON THE CLIFF
Every day I tell myself
I’m gonna fix those stairs,
Fix those ramshackle stairs
Leading to my cabin,
My cabin on the cliff.
But you know how it is,
When you’re panning for gold,
You put everything off,
Until you are too old.
Mountain stream rushes by,
Falls into pool below.
Next door the wreckage of
Panhandler Johnny’s hut,
Clings on precariously
To the shale walled cliff,
Whilst golden aspen trees
Shimmer in Autumn sun.
Stand, knee deep in water,
Nobody there but me,
Search hard for golden flakes.
I look at my cabin,
My wilderness log home,
God how I love this place.
Happy on my own with
My cabin on the cliff.
Don’t cha know that I’m an
Old, gold, panhandling man
Little darlin’ I’m an
Old, gold, panhandling man.
Harry Rogers, in the hut. February 23rd 2017.
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BUBBLES
Sat here, I dream, in the half dark
Of you, blowing bubbles all day,
On that hill, inside Greenwich Park,
You blew all our troubles away.
See our children, they come running,
Try to catch all those rainbow globes,
Swirling before bursting, stunning
As earings that hung from your lobes.
Red ball above onion rises,
The tide turns below Bugsby’s Reach,
You’d not know there was a crisis,
Upon that far flung Cuban beach.
The Sun reflects pale orange pink,
On last dreg bubbles up quite high,
Silently drift towards the drink,
Then, float away, broke bubble I.
Harry Rogers, Pencnwcau, Aberbanc, 2nd December 2017.
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MILLIONS OF BRAZILIANS
Millions of Brazilians
Have witnessed all these scenes before
Paliamentary pantomime
Has locked down everybody’s doors
The army ringed now around London
Stock markets fall down through the floor
There’s no knowing where this leads us
The MPs bluster on, so sure
Their nationalistic reactions
Echoed loudly on radio four
Butterfly show goes on and on
No dreamliners fly anymore
We are told it’s for our own good
For the aged, for the poor
Evoke the spirit of the blitz
Best wishes from second world war
Spout about spiritual health
Whilst televising martial law
Soon round up any dissidents
Is that what this is really for?
Harri Rogers, in the red bedroom, Pencnwau, 19th March 2020
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SEARCHING FOR A HANG
ON THE STREET WITH THE TRAMWAY FROM TAKSIM SQUARE
IT SEEMS THERE ARE MUSICIANS BUSKING EVERYWHERE
HALFWAY ALONG THE RAILS NEAR THE ADA BOOKSHOP BAR
FIFTEEN TURKISH FOLK SINGERS SING SONGS FROM ANKARA
THE SWEETEST SONG THAT NIGHT CAME NOT FROM ANY TONGUE
BUT FROM THE DULCET FINGERS OF SOME HIPPY WITH HIS HANG
ON A CARPET COVERED CUSHION OF YELLOW BLUE AND GREEN
THE HANG RESTED ON HIS KNEES LIKE AN UPTURNED SOUP TUREEN
A CROWD OF PEOPLE GATHERED AS HE WOVE HIS RHYTHMIC SPELL
EACH CAREFULLY CHOSEN NOTE CLEARER THAN A CHRYSTAL BELL
FAR FAR SWEETER SOUNDING THAN ANY BELL THAT EVER RANG
NOW EVER SINCE THAT NIGHT I’VE BEEN SEARCHING FOR A HANG
Copyright Harry Rogers – 17th October 2012 – Istanbul
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Below Topkapi Palace Walls – the chilly dogz
This is The Chilly Dogz version of my poem Below Topkapi Palace Walls written during my holiday in Istanbul in October 2012.
BELOW TOPKAPI PALACE WALLS
The horse chestnuts are dropping conkers
Outside Topkapi Palace walls
Beautiful wooden houses
Frequented by queens
In the evening gently smoking
To Blue Mosque prayer calls
Across the way yet another ruined shack
With an Istanbul stray cat
Sit sipping from a small glass
One more Hot Apple Tea
Staring out from beneath the rim
Of that old battered tennis hat
It’s hard to believe that we’re all
So close to war in the 21st century
They say this is the place
Where East and West collide
But wherever you come from
This just might be the perfect place to hide
Whilst waiting for the start of
A nuclear Winter bomb as it falls
Find me smoking apple aniseed hubble bubble
Outside Topkapi Palace walls
Yeah
Find me smoking apple aniseed hubble bubble
Outside Topkapi Palace walls
Copyright Harry Rogers – 18th October 2012
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THE GIRL IN THE GARNET COLOURED DRESS
I wrote this after thinking about children dying by accident in Palestine. Marc Gordon and I recorded the video very quickly in his monthly guitar shop in Cardigan in our usual let’s bang it down straight away manner. We are having fun doing these Tuesday session videos and it looks like we will get out and about for more in the coming months as I am retiring from wage slavery next weekend.
THE GIRL IN THE GARNET COLOURED DRESS
SUCH A BEAUTIFUL LITTLE GIRL
IN HER GARNET COLOURED DRESS
THE PERFECT IMAGE OF SERENITY
CARRYING A PILE OF TABOON BREAD
FROM HER GRANDMOTHERS OVEN
GOLD COINS GLINTING ON HER CAP
SMILING AT LEMONS IN THE SUNSHINE
WITH ASSURED STILNESS OF HER HEAD
STOPPING BEFORE CROSSING THE ROAD
SHE CRUMPLES TO THE DUSTY GROUND
ANOTHER COLLATERAL OBSCENITY
AN ISRAELI RICOCHET LEAVES HER DEAD
ARE WE CRYING YET?
ARE WE CRYING YET?
ARE WE CRYING YET?
ARE WE?
Harry Rogers: Sunday 16th September 2012
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An All American Boy
I finished writing this song lyric on 28th February and a week later this happened… http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-asia-17330205 .
AN ALL AMERICAN BOY
THEY POSTED HIM OUT TO AFGHANISTAN
HIS DAD HOPED IT WOULD MAKE OF HIM A MAN
LIKE IT HAD FOR HIM OUT IN VIETNAM
RISKING LIFE AND LIMB FOR UNCLE SAM
HIS GIRLFRIEND AND HIS MUM WERE REALLY SCARED
EVERYBODY SEEMED AS IF THEY CARED
HE WAS
AN ALL AMERICAN BOY
AN ALL AMERICAN BOY
AN ALL AMERICAN BOY
HE SPENT MANY WEEKS FIGHTING WITH THE TALIBAN
GOT A NEW TATTOO THOUGHT IT PROVED HE WAS A MAN
GREW A BEARD THAT MADE HIM LOOK LIKE CHARLIE CHAN
THEN HIS GIRLFRIEND WROTE HE WAS IN THE DUMPER VAN
THAT’S WHEN THE SITUATION BEGAN TO GET HIM DOWN
THAT WAS WHY HE RODE HIS JEEP INTO KABUL TOWN
HE WAS
AN ALL AMERICAN BOY
AN ALL AMERICAN BOY
AN ALL AMERICAN BOY
DRINKING ILLEGAL HOOCH WITH THREE OTHER GUYS
HE LOST ALL REASON ANGRY TEARS FILLED UP HIS EYES
PICKING UP HIS M16 HE RAN AMOK IN THE NOONDAY SUN
SHOOTING SHOPPERS WILLY NILLY FIRING ON THE RUN
A SNIPER WITH A LAZER SIGHT AIMED A BEAD OF RED
SLOWLY PULLED THE TRIGGER AND SHOT HIM IN THE HEAD
HE WAS
AN ALL AMERICAN BOY
AN ALL AMERICAN BOY
AN ALL AMERICAN BOY
Copyright: Harry Rogers, Aberbanc, 28th February 2012
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Scene Red rehearsal video “SON”
I wrote this after hearing that friends had lost a son in Afghanistan. I could not really reflect their anguish at such a loss so I decided to write a poem based on feelings that I might feel in a similar situation. The lyric follows and has become a song that Scene Red are rehearsing for the upcoming recording session.
SON
Son, as I stand here, all alone
Looking down, upon your stone
I remember passing out day
You’d grown so tall, and oh so brave
You looked so smart, so very proud
And the band was playing, very loud
I stood with your mother, by my side
Both of us swollen up with pride,
But a feeling niggled, deep inside
In my heart of hearts I knew someone had lied
I knew the donkeys had lied to the lions
In pursuit of new fires for their irons
Son, it is very hard to take,
Son, I know I made a big mistake,
Son, I knew the war was one big fake
Son, your mum and I ache and ache
We’ll never, ever, get the chance
To see you dance your wedding dance
Son, oh son, my lovely son
Son, oh son, my lovely son
When you were still a little boy
I brought you a bright shiny toy
I thought you’d have a lot of fun
Playing with your new toy gun
Now I know what I must do
This is the promise, I make to you
Whenever I meet fathers and sons
I’ll tell them all, smash up your guns
Fathers and sons – smash up your guns
Fathers and sons – smash up your guns
Do it now – do it – for my son!
Copyright: Harry Rogers – Aberbanc 3/3/2010
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Is it just death from here on in?
A poem for dead pop stars;-
IS IT JUST DEATH FROM HERE ON IN?
THERE I WAS TRYING REALLY HARD
TO BELIEVE IN MONKEE DAYDREAMS
I HEARD THE NEWS THAT DAVY JONES
HAD DIED FROM A HEART ATTACK
I COULD HAVE SWORN I HEARD THE WHISTLE
OF CLARKSVILLE’S LAST TRAIN CALLING
PICKING UP ALL THOSE DEAD POP-STARS
ON THE NEVER ENDING JOURNEY BACK HOME
EVERY DAY THE LIST GETS LONGER
MORE STARS FALLING FROM THE SKY
THEY GET A LITTLE NOD ON FACEBOOK
LINKS TO FINE WRITTEN OBITUARIES
AND ANCIENT YOU-TUBE VIDEOS
REST IN PEACE AMY AND WHITNEY
AND DOBIE, JACKIE AND ETTA
LET MEMORIES JUST NOT FADE AWAY
WILL ALL OF US ALWAYS LOVE YOU?
IS IT JUST DEATH FROM HERE ON IN?
5th March 2012
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The Modern Privateers – The Chilly Dogz
Another track from The Chilly Dogz second album with Marc Gordon on guitar and Roland Guitar Synth. I wrote this after visiting a particular tower block in Swansea as part of my job as a social survey interviewer for ONS. The dealers in the courtyard are really scary with their dogs just itching to get at you as you gingerly make your way to the lifts. I was warned not to carry my laptop into the lift on my own on this estate, I did and luckily nothing happened but it is very representative of certain forgotten parts of the Coalition nightmare we all inhabit today. Of course heroin has been rife in these areas for decades now….. as have the money lenders!
MODERN PRIVATEERS
This is the story of the Modern Privateers
Be careful ‘cos it just might, fill you up with tears
The Lift it is broken
We gotta use the stairs
This is because
No-one fuckin’ cares
(about) Who makes all the laws
Or who owns all the shares
(and why) Public it’s yours
And private it’s theirs
Living up the tower
For at least another year
Giving loads of money
To some goddam privateer
Outside in the courtyard
Stands an illustrated man
With his heavy chained bull-terrier
And his new black windowed van
In the flats on all the balconies
The casements have gone rusty
All the winter rain gets in
The furniture smells musty
Legions of people living here
Just can’t take it for much more
They’re reduced to spending all their time
Scrabbling around to score
The illustrated man has
A friend named Sharkskin Jack
Who will always loan you money
When you need to buy some smack
But, when you borrow money
Off of men like Sharkskin Jack
No matter how much you give to them
You’ll not finish paying back
They’ll string you out upon their rack
For years and years and years
Those two bastards and the rentier
Are the modern Privateers.
Copyright: Harry Rogers, 24/05/2010
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Like Lazarus Rising
You know what, it gets on my nerve endings the way that racists assume that because you are the same colour as them then you automatically have the same obnoxious views as them. I wrote this poem about it the other evening so here it is:-
LIKE LAZARUS RISING
LIKE LAZARUS RISING
SOMETHING DEEP AND DARK
REARS IT’S UGLY HEAD
CRAWLING ON IT’S BELLY
OUT INTO THE LIGHT OF DAY
FROM BENEATH THE GUTTER
SEEPING RACIST FILTH
AND SPREADING IT LIKE BUTTER
THERE IS A ROARING MURMUR
YOU CAN HEAR IT EVERYWHERE
THE SOUND IS SICKENING
LIKE A CANCER IN YOUR EAR
THEY’RE BLAMING STRANGERS
AS THEY’RE WHIPPING UP FEAR
THEY THINK IT’S OK TO TELL YOU
BECAUSE YOU ARE NOT OTHER
AH BUT THEY LOOK CONFUSED
AS THEY SLOWLY DISCOVER
THAT IN THE PAGES OF YOUR BOOK
IT’S THEM THAT ARE THE OTHER
harri seeing red 